A Battle of Wills
by i'll-be-a-knight
Summary: Ron and Hermione's usual bickering results in an untimely battle of self-control.  In the struggle with self-denial, who will be the winner?
1. The Challenge

**DISCLAIMER**: The characters, places, and things that are part of the Harry Potter universe all belong to J.K. Rowling, though should she choose to give up ownership of Ron, then I would gladly take him. This particular story, however, is mine.

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><p>Harry glanced at his best mate, his expression filled with curiosity and disbelief at what he had just heard. "So let me get this straight," he said as he and Ron sat down in a corner booth of a pub with two empty glasses and a bottle of firewhiskey. The Chudley Cannons had lost yet again, in spectacular fashion, and it had become a routine of sorts for the two friends to frequent this particular pub after every Quidditch match, win or lose (and the Cannons often lost). "Since you and Hermione apparently can't keep your hands off each other—which, by the way, is a mental image I would rather not have—both of you have decided to give up the…physical aspect of your relationship? Again, something I'd rather not picture," he hastily added as he opened the bottle and poured.<p>

"You make it sound completely mental when you say it like that," Ron remarked, touching his glass to Harry's before swallowing the liquor with a quick gulp.

"It sounds completely mental no matter how you say it!"

"Trust me, it makes sense." Didn't it?

Harry shook his head. "I don't see how. Why would you ever agree to something like this?" He imagined voluntarily giving up sex with Ginny and nearly shuddered at the horrifying thought. He tossed back his own drink in an attempt to erase the image.

"She provoked me, all right? This is really all her fault, but I'm not about to back down. You see, here's what happened…"

Ron then launched into the tale of how he and Hermione arrived at the situation they were in. By all accounts, the evening they had spent together at his flat showed no signs of trouble looming ahead. Even the dinner he had cooked, which (predictably) had been a disastrous effort, didn't dampen their spirits; if anything, his clumsy attempt had somehow charmed Hermione and she rewarded him handsomely when they made their way to his room afterwards. A couple of hours later, sweaty and satisfied, they reluctantly left behind his tangled bed sheets since she was adamant about going back to her own flat rather than spending the night with him.

"You really don't want to stay?" he asked as he held her close. He was prepared to accept that she was leaving, but there was always a chance that he could change her mind.

"Ron, you know how much work I have to do for the Ministry. If I stay here, I won't get an early start on it."

"But it's the weekend!"

Hermione gave him a stern look. "Do you think that matters to house elves? They don't have the luxury of getting weekends off! That can change with the proposal I'm working on; it needs all of my attention."

"Right. Second place to a bloody report," he said resignedly. He had grown to care about the rights of house elves, even if he didn't match Hermione's fervor. There was no stopping her from her crusade, not that he wanted to get in her way.

She frowned and crossed her arms resolutely. "This is for the best. I'd never get anything done if I keep letting you distract me—"

He was about to kiss her one last time when her remark stopped him short. "_Letting_ me?" he blurted out incredulously. "Are you saying that this…" He waved his hands ambiguously at the space between them. "This is something you can turn on and off?"

"Face it, I've always had more self-control than you."

He scoffed loudly. "Oh, I guess that was another girl who ripped part of my jumper the other night in her hurry to—"

Hermione turned beet red. "That is hardly the point!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"We're talking about self-control, aren't we? It seems to be exactly the point."

"Besides, that's just one instance compared to all the other times you've…initiated things."

His eyebrow quirked as he said, "I never heard you complain."

"I wanted to spare your feelings."

"Spare my—" He couldn't finish the sentence; her statement was too ludicrous to even repeat. "You want self-control, Hermione? Well, you'll have it."

She burst out laughing. "Oh, please, you wouldn't last a day!"

Didn't she realize that her utter lack of confidence in his resolve only made him more determined to prove her wrong? "Care to make it interesting?"

"You're challenging me?"

"Yeah, I am. Afraid you'll lose?"

"Believe me, that's not going to happen. What do I get when I win?"

"Something better than any prize. The winner gets the personal satisfaction that he's right."

"I'm sure you meant to say 'she.' All right, challenge accepted." Hermione grinned. "This is going to be fun. You know how much I like being correct."

Ron chose to let her believe in her own superiority, knowing that it would be that much sweeter when she comes crashing down to earth later. "Weren't you leaving?" he reminded her as he opened the door to the warm night air. The gesture was merely a formality since she could have Disapparated from inside the flat.

"Getting rid of me without a kiss good night?" She playfully poked him in the chest. "Are you worried you'll lose already?"

In response, he crushed his lips to hers and offered her a taste of what she would be missing. It gave him a rush of pleasure to feel her responding to his demands, to know that she perhaps didn't have quite a hold on her precious control as she claimed to. Pulling away, he couldn't help but smile as he felt her tremble slightly against him. "That should last you a while," he murmured.

"How very considerate. The real question is, how long will it last _you_?" She stood on her toes to kiss him, just a brush of her mouth against his, and it annoyed him greatly that the feather-light touch affected him much more than the passionate exchange he'd initiated just seconds before. "Good night, Ronald."

Ron now scowled at the memory of it as he refilled his and Harry's empty glasses. "You see what she does to me?"

Harry slouched in his seat when he noticed two wizards pointing in his direction. The Boy Who Lived (Again) still drew some attention, much to his dismay, even though peace had been restored for more than two years now. "So how long has it been since…?"

"Three weeks," Ron mournfully responded. Three very long, lonely weeks. The last thing he saw before Hermione had Disapparated was the smug, all-knowing smirk on her face; they were both well aware that she had reclaimed the upper hand that he'd held so briefly. He could still feel the imprint of her kiss, so soft and fleeting. It had been the barest of touches, but he might as well have been branded by it.

"Blimey, Ron! Three weeks?" Harry gaped at him, his eyes growing larger behind his spectacles. "But how do you—"

"Cold showers," he cut in with a sigh. "Lots of cold showers."

He tried so hard not to think of Hermione, but bloody hell, he missed her. His bed felt so empty without her there and even though he had already washed his sheets, blankets, and pillow cases, her scent remained as if to taunt and tempt him. He missed watching her sleep, on the rare occasion that he was awake before she was. She would probably dismiss it if he told her, but he thought she looked beautiful when she rested, so utterly content and at peace. He liked watching her eyelids flutter open and the look of mild surprise when she saw him, as if she couldn't believe that he was already awake. He missed the shy smile she would give him as she burrowed a little further into the blankets. He found her modesty endearing, especially since he's seen and tasted all of her and she was equally as starved for him. He loved the way she kissed him to start the day, somewhat tentative at first, then growing bolder as she rolled on top of him and took her fill. She was both greedy and generous and it drove him crazy with lust. He missed the way her hair would fall around their faces like a curtain, making the moment more private even though they were already alone. He could practically hear her sighs and whispers in the crowded pub. His palms itched at the thought of touching her; his hands seemed to have memorized every gentle curve, every smooth angle, and every soft line of her body.

He toyed with his glass, sliding it back and forth between his hands, in a vain attempt divert himself. He'll need another cold shower tonight.

Harry drank his firewhiskey in sympathy. "Why can't you two have a normal relationship like Ginny and me? We would never get into this kind of a situation…"

Ron sipped his drink slowly as he tuned out Harry's voice. It was a speech that he would hear time and time again whenever he and Hermione encountered some kind of snag in their relationship. With all due respect to his best friend, what Harry considered normal or stable is what Ron thought to be bloody boring. Boring is fine for some people; in fact, with everything Harry had gone through in his life, boring and normal are exactly what he should be drawn to. But Ron believed that he and Hermione needed the conflict, especially when their relationship had been tumultuous ever since they were just friends. The bickering was just a part of who they were and he couldn't imagine their lives without it. He hoped that what he and Hermione had would never be normal. Besides, what did it matter if the journey wasn't smooth, as long as she was by his side through it all? There was no one else he'd want to share this adventure with.

Still, he wasn't going to give in to her, even though desperation was clawing at him with sharp talons that nearly tore his control to shreds. One thing was for sure, he mused as he sulked over his drink. She was probably handling this challenge with much more confidence than he was.

* * *

><p>She was going mad and the blame lay squarely on Ron Weasley's shoulders. Yes, it was entirely his fault that she had become the opposite version of herself. Why, it was only three weeks ago when she used to be productive, on task, and intelligent. Now none of those attributes could be used to describe her.<p>

Irony had dealt her a cruel blow when it decided that she wouldn't be able to focus on her work _without_ Ron to distract her. If anything, she thought about him more when he wasn't around, curse him. Quite simply, Ron had invaded every corner of her life. Every room in her flat had a piece of him in it: his clothes in her bedroom, his towel and toothbrush in her bathroom, his favorite mug and snacks in her kitchen. She kept a few photos of him in her office and even though she had stuffed them all in one of her desk drawers, the effort was futile.

The report that had been her reason for leaving Ron's flat that night weeks ago was still unfinished and even the drafts she had discarded didn't seem as if they had come from her own quill. Not only was her writing riddled with mistakes, but the sentence structure, the paragraphs, the overall flow of the composition seemed so…simple. So unlike her. There seemed to be no knowledge behind the words, just a bland presentation of facts and unconvincing arguments. Her dissatisfaction grew with each roll of parchment she crumpled up and threw away.

There had been a particularly embarrassing moment a few days before when she was in a meeting with a small group of people to discuss the proposed amendment to the rights of house elves and other creatures used for domestic servitude. As a rebuke for her incomplete report, she was delegated to recording the minutes, which was usually the task for a self-writing quill that automatically transcribed dictations. She was actually quite diligent for the first half of the meeting, until she stifled a yawn and reflected on how tired she was, which caused her to think of Ron since he was completely responsible for the state she was in.

She thought of how his bright red hair looked on her pillows, mussed from sleep, and how she enjoyed running her fingers through it. He usually slept on his stomach and it had become a habit for her to trace the line of his spine and the lean muscles on his arms and shoulders as the sun filtered through the window. He always woke up slowly and before he even opened his eyes, he would have his arm around her waist to pull her closer to him. "Better than any alarm clock," he would say in a sleepy voice before kissing her good morning. He never failed to rob her of her breath or her sensibilities. Ron Weasley didn't believe in chaste pecks on the cheek, not even if he was in a hurry; whether he was savoring her or devouring her, he kissed deeply and thoroughly, as if there would never be another moment but the one they were currently sharing and he had to make the most of it. Her sighs would fill the room as he kissed her neck and her throat; she could feel him smile against her skin, as if enjoying a private joke. He always asked if he was crushing her and she always said no, which was the truth. He may be quite taller than her, but once they were in bed, everything lined up perfectly. Besides, she loved the feel of him on top of her, so strong, so solid…so _hers_. Before long, his pulse would be pounding in rhythm with her own frantically beating heart, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he unraveled the knot of her dressing gown and—

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione gasped and dropped the quill that had been loosely dangling from her fingertips rather than scratching furiously on the parchment.

"We've been trying to get your attention for a full minute! Please enlighten us on what you could possibly be thinking about that has captured your interest so thoroughly?" her superior demanded.

Of course she couldn't tell her what was truly on her mind and she fumbled with a lie and an apology as her face grew hotter. Is this what she's been reduced to, daydreaming of making love with Ron during work hours, in the middle of a meeting? She could strangle him for putting her in this position!

Surely it would help her a bit if she had someone to talk to, someone who would listen to her as she vented her frustrations. No doubt Ron had turned to Harry, so that was out of the question; she wouldn't want to put their best friend in the middle. Besides, it would be rather odd to talk to him about that particular subject. Of course there was always Ginny, but Hermione doubted that she would want to hear of her brother's sex life.

She was now sitting in a Muggle café, her tea and sandwich cold and untouched. She needed to get as far away from the wizarding world as possible, though the distance she had placed between her and Ron didn't seem to be helping. If people here thought it was odd that she was writing with quill and parchment rather than pen and paper, it escaped her notice. She had fled to this place in her desperate need to finish her report and escape from thoughts of Ron, but she realized that the only way the latter would happen was if she had a lobotomy or suffered from amnesia, in which case she won't be able to do the former.

She sighed as she leaned back on her chair. At this rate, this report will never be finished. She had to do _something, _anything that would enable her to stop missing him without surrendering the control she valued so much, the control that she could practically feel slipping through her fingers. But what?


	2. Strategies

**DISCLAIMER**: The characters, places, and things that are part of the Harry Potter universe all belong to J.K. Rowling, though should she choose to give up ownership of Ron, then I would gladly take him. This particular story, however, is mine.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Though I have written it out in traditional English, please feel free to read Fleur's dialogue in her accent. My inner perfectionist wouldn't allow me to butcher the spelling of her lines.

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><p>Several days later, Hermione had come up with a plan that she believed to be quite brilliant. After a frenzied, almost maniacal focus on her unfinished report (during which she had confined herself in her flat to work for 24 full hours) she can say with satisfaction that her work was finally complete and worthy of her high standards. Yes, she had to sacrifice several hours of sleep and a portion of her sanity along with it, but in the end it had been worthwhile. Besides, the laser-like attention she had on her work enabled her to think of something other than Ron. But now that the report is out of the way, thoughts of him quickly occupied her mind once more.<p>

The idea popped in her head as she sat in her office one day, listening to Harry as he fretted over what to get Ginny for her birthday.

"What am I going to do? It's just a couple of weeks away!"

"Hmm." Even Harry's emphatic statement made her think of Ron, though he wasn't the topic of discussion. A couple of weeks...more than a couple of weeks had passed since she'd seen him last. Privately, she can admit that she missed him terribly. Her bed was cold and lonely without him there, and she longed for his company in general. She even missed arguing with him, which only proved that she was going quite mad.

"What are you getting her?" he demanded.

"I don't know, I haven't thought about it." How could she even think about birthday presents when she was too distracted?

"Haven't thought about it?" Harry repeated incredulously.

She barely stifled an impatient sigh at his inflated sense of urgency. "Harry, I'm sure whatever you get for her will be fine and she will love it," Hermione reassured him.

"You know, this wouldn't even be a problem if I didn't let you win the auction."

"You didn't _let_ me do anything; I beat you fair and square!" she objected.

Several months ago, the Ministry employees held an auction to raise money for various organizations that needed funds to repair the destruction caused by the war. She and Harry were only mildly interested in the various things up for bid until the auctioneer announced the next item: a five-day, all-expenses paid vacation at an exclusive resort. Both of them immediately sprang into action and launched into a heated bidding war that the other Ministry employees and guests wisely avoided. Both Ron and Ginny were ignorant of this blistering exchange, since the Weasleys had gone to Romania to visit Charlie when the auction had taken place.

"I was being a gentleman," Harry insisted.

"Now you're being a sore loser," she retorted without heat. Arguing with Harry was pointless and hardly worth her time when she had a seed of an idea that was beginning to grow and needed her attention. She had been saving the vacation package for her and Ron's anniversary, but now was a good time as any to redeem her prize. What better way to get Ron to capitulate and end their bet than whisking him away to an undoubtedly romantic setting? She was certain this hatchling of a plan will work, once she put more thought into it. _Fairly_ certain it will work. It will _probably_ work. Surely it can't fail!

"I'll help you find the perfect present for Ginny, I promise," she vowed as she ushered him out of the office without bothering to be subtle about it. "I'll see what I can get out of her the next time I see her. Right now I need time to think."

"About what?" he asked, eyes narrowed in speculation.

Revealing any part of her plan to Harry was the equivalent of telling Ron about it herself. "About Ginny's gift, of course," she fibbed with a smile.

"Okay," he remarked, grinning. "Thanks a lot, Hermione."

She closed the door behind him and sighed. She hated lying to Harry, especially when she felt she owed him for giving her the idea that will guarantee her victory. She really is going to think about Ginny's birthday gift. Just not yet.

* * *

><p>Hermione decided to break the news to Ron bright and early on Saturday morning. She needed to use whatever weapons she had in her arsenal and the element of surprise was simple yet effective. Spirits high, she knocked on his front door. Though Ron had given her leave to unlock the door to his home and come in whenever she liked, her ingrained sense of propriety and manners would never allow her to abuse such a courtesy.<p>

When she received no response, she knocked again, harder and louder this time. Was he even home? Now that he was in charge of the joke shop in Diagon Alley, he can set his own work schedule and opted to have weekends free. The door quickly swung open as she was about to bang on it for the third time.

His hair was a tousled mess and in need of a trim. His jeans and shirt were wrinkled, as if he had slept in them last night. He obviously hadn't been awake long enough to shave the overnight stubble from his face. All in all, he looked disheveled, disoriented, and disgruntled. She had never seen a more welcome sight.

"What do you want?" he demanded gruffly, squinting against the sun's unforgiving glare.

"Is that any way to greet the woman who loves you?" Hermione brushed past him and stepped inside the flat.

His only response was a grunt and to slam the front door, an action he immediately regretted if his low moan was any indication. She didn't attempt to hide a smirk.

"Rough night?"

Because she had known him for many years, she was able to decipher the indistinct muttering he often resorted to when he was in a bad mood, thinking aloud, or in this case, suffering from lack of sleep. She caught the words "Dean," "Seamus," and "pub," and quickly surmised last night's events.

"Ron, you know you can't keep up with those two. No one can."

Another grunt.

Ordinarily she would be put off by his behavior but instead she was rather amused by it. Absence did make the heart grow fonder. "Why, I'm fine, thank you for asking," she answered as if he had posed a question about her well-being. "Yes, it _has_ been a long time since we've seen each other! Several weeks, I think."

Ron sighed heavily and glared at her. "Hermione, what do you want?"

"So you haven't forgotten to combine words together to make a sentence." She stared at him and could swear she felt her heart sigh. There are times when she just wanted to take care of him. This happened to be one of those times. "Ron, sit down." She dragged him to the kitchen table and nudged him into a chair. When she was satisfied that he wouldn't slide to the floor, she busied herself in the kitchen.

With his aching head in his hands, Ron waited a moment before peeking through his fingers. No, he wasn't dreaming. Hermione really was there in his tiny kitchen, frowning over the lack of substantial food in the cupboards. What was she doing here, other than to torture and torment him by simply being within arm's reach? To say that he was surprised by her presence was a vast understatement. When he had opened the door and saw her on the other side, he felt as if he'd been Stupefied. She looked so lovely and fresh, and in comparison he felt like a bag of dirty laundry.

Why did he let Dean and Seamus drink him under the table? Of course he knew he couldn't keep up with them, but they kept goading him and they were having such a good time... It was bad enough to be caught off guard by her visit, but to also be hung over on the top of that, she obviously had the upper-hand even though they were in his territory. She could probably do anything at this point and he would break.

Without the hindrance of his fingers, Ron watched while Hermione brewed a pot of tea as she hummed a tune under her breath. It made for a pretty picture, but the longer he watched, the more his resolve strengthened. No, he wouldn't break, because that would be playing right into her hands and he'd be damned if he went down without a fight. As much as he wanted to tear her clothes off and take her upstairs where they could have their way with each other, he knew that wasn't the best idea, however satisfying it would be. There was a purpose to this bet of theirs, though at the moment he was having a hard time remembering exactly what that purpose was. He silently cursed Dean and Seamus (and their penchant for indulging in firewhiskey without suffering ill consequences) for causing him to lower his defenses.

Teapot in hand, Hermione joined Ron at the table, torn between wanting to treat him like a sick child and kissing him ravenously until they were both delirious. Only he could elicit such opposing reactions in her. "You'll feel better after you eat something," she told him as she placed a plate of biscuits in front of him. "Of course, these can hardly be considered real food—" Her sentence stuttered to a stop when he took her free hand and absently pressed it to his lips in a gesture of affection and gratitude. She almost dropped the teapot and nearly spilled scalding water on them both.

"Thanks," Ron said sincerely before taking a small bite of a biscuit, oblivious to the effect he had on her. Hermione curled the hand he had just released into a tight fist. It felt as if currents of electricity were running through her arm.

What irked her the most was that she had put some effort in her appearance today and it didn't even faze him. A new blouse, a dab of the perfume he had given her for her birthday, and she had even wrestled her unruly hair into submission since he often commented on how much he liked it when she wore it away from her face. But it was obvious that she had not succeeded in getting his attention and the only signs of suffering he had shown so far were due to excessive consumption of liquor.

He wasn't even trying to get her hot and bothered, yet that was the very state she was in. Hermione sat down before she could make an even bigger fool of herself and noted with a growing sense of annoyance that Ron now looked more alert than he had been just a few minutes ago. In the length of time it had taken her to make tea, the small advantage she had been clinging to had evaporated. If she had only pressed on rather than giving in to the urge to take care of him, the playing field wouldn't be level right now.

"As much as I appreciate the tea and biscuits, I don't think that's why you're here," he remarked.

Without preamble, she asked, "How do you feel about going on holiday?"

"Hard not to like that idea."

"How do you feel about going on one with me?"

Ron nearly choked on his tea. Typically he wouldn't hesitate to go anywhere with her, but their current situation is far from ideal. Was she mad? The two of them together in a strange place...anything can happen. Judging by the way she intently studied him, Hermione was counting on exactly that. He acknowledged her smirk with a muttered curse. Bloody hell, she was good.

"Is something wrong?" she asked sweetly, feigning innocence even as the gleam in her eye said otherwise. "I won a free trip to a very nice resort and the passes are set to expire soon." That last bit wasn't true, but that was the only rationale she could come up with to influence Ron into agreeing to accompany her. "It would be a waste if we can't use them."

"So give them to Harry." All too aware of how ridiculous he sounded, Ron quickly gulped down more tea.

Like hell she was giving them to Harry! She hadn't expected Ron to put up a resistance, but it was a minor obstacle that could be circumvented. She knew exactly what button to push. "Are you scared? Is your resolve not as strong as you think it is?"

"I'm not scared," he snapped defensively.

"Then I don't see why you'd say no to an all-expenses paid holiday. I'm looking forward to my impending triumph—" She was briefly interrupted by his loud scoff before continuing, "—as much as I look forward to spending time with you. I really miss you, Ron." Hermione took his hand to show him that her words weren't designed as a ploy to convince him to go on the trip.

He would have to be the craziest person in the world to turn down a chance like this. Then again, didn't Harry already question his judgment—or lack thereof—when Ron had divulged the details of his and Hermione's odd situation? No, it would definitely be crazier if he refused to go. His lunacy would be at Xeno Lovegood levels.

Contrary to what Hermione believed (or what she wanted him to believe that she believed), he can hold his own against her. She wasn't going to win as effortlessly as she claimed—that is, if she would even win at all. He could understand why she had come up with the idea for a holiday. If she hadn't forced his hand like this, they would keep avoiding each other for Merlin knows how long, all because neither one of them wanted to give up the fight for control. But bet or no bet, he simply wanted to be with her, it didn't matter where they were.

"Just promise me one thing," he said.

Hermione felt as if she'd claimed a small victory. "What is it?"

"Whatever happens on this holiday, it needs to be about us."

"Sure," she agreed, confused by his request. What else would it be about if not them? She bolted up from her chair, already too busy planning to puzzle over his remark. "Let me know when you can arrange time off work, just five days."

"Okay." Ron rose as well, carrying the teapot to the sink.

"I suppose I'll be leaving now." Hermione paused before asking, "Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?" She had aimed to sound sarcastic, perhaps even indifferent. She knew, as soon as the words left her mouth, that she hadn't succeeded in filtering out the hope and longing in her voice. She could tell by the look on Ron's face that he knew it, too.

She watched as he walked to where she stood, his blue eyes carefully assessing her. He cupped her face in his hand; it was a gesture he did often and one that she loved, for it seemed as if he didn't want to look at anyone or anything else but her. His thumb traced her cheek as he bent his head down to meet hers, his movements agonizingly slow.

Just as their lips were about to touch, he said, "You wish." He abruptly pulled away, grinning. "Thanks for the tea."

Hermione expelled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It was impossible to discern which feeling ruled more: disappointment that he didn't follow through on a kiss she knew they both wanted, or annoyance at herself for failing to see the true nature of his intentions. How had she fallen for that?

"Anytime," she stated pleasantly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. "I'll see you later." With a wave goodbye, she Disapparated, leaving Ron all alone once again.

He almost couldn't stop himself from kissing her...almost. But it had to be done if he wanted to send her a message, to let her know that it won't be easy. Hermione may have come in here with the advantage, but now he can say that they were just about even.

* * *

><p>For someone about to go on holiday, Hermione was in a state of apprehension. She and Ron were leaving the next day but due to some last minute preparations she had to take care of, she found herself in unfamiliar territory—a lingerie shop in downtown London. After the way she reacted to Ron last week, she figured a bit of insurance wouldn't hurt. Glancing around furtively, she wished she had borrowed Harry's invisibility cloak. She wasn't ashamed to be in the store; she was just so ridiculously out of her element that she felt incredibly self-conscious.<p>

There were robes, pajamas, and nightgowns in satin, silk, and lace, all in a variety of colors. It made her head spin. She had destroyed a Horcrux and faced countless enemies and Dark Wizards, but this task is by far more daunting.

"Hermione?" said a voice from behind her.

There was no mistaking that French accent. "Fleur," she acknowledged with a sinking sensation. Any hopes she had of keeping her visit to this particular store a secret were now dashed. "Fancy running into you in a Muggle shop."

"I always come here when I want to buy...certain things." From the look of Fleur's full shopping bag, she obviously knew what she was doing. Hermione couldn't help but envy the way the other witch was so at ease.

"You didn't see anything for yourself?" Fleur asked.

There was no point in denying she wasn't clueless, especially when she clearly needed to be steered in the right direction. "I'm not even sure where to begin."

"Well, what does Ronald like?"

If someone had told her that she would be discussing her sex life with Fleur, Hermione would have laughed in their face. "Er...I...I never had to, um, convince Ron to—" Merlin help her, she sounded like a bumbling idiot. "Ron always makes me feel very desirable."

"But of course." Fleur gave her a knowing smile. "The Weasleys have...how do you say? Fire in the blood. This is very true with Bill. Sometimes he is insatiable. An animal in bed, figuratively and literally."

Hermione could feel the heat rushing to her face. She wasn't a prude by any means, but she wasn't prone to discussing such a topic even with Ginny, much less talking about it with Fleur. And she did not need to hear any details about other people's bedroom activities, thank you very much. But admittedly, she needed the other witch's help. "Yes, Ron can be that way, too. Not the literal part, obviously, but...at any rate, I'm not really sure what he would like."

"Then focus on what _you_ like, what _you_ would be comfortable in." Fleur handed her a nightgown that felt incredibly soft against the skin.

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Didn't you just tell me that he desired you?"

"Yes, but..." Hermione didn't have the heart to tell Fleur that Ron would be trying his best to resist any of her attempts at seduction. The fact that she had never actually tried seducing him before was another matter entirely.

"If there is one thing you must remember, it is this: if you are confident, then that is what he will respond to. If you are sure of yourself, it will not matter if you wear the most expensive silk or _une sac poubelle_!"

"A—a what?"

"A garbage bag," she translated. "Your Ron may have fire in the blood, but _this—_" She gestured at the nightgown Hermione held. "This will get his blood boiling."

It was hard not to get caught up in Fleur's adamant enthusiasm. "Thank you for your encouragement. I still don't know what I'm doing, but now I feel a little less lost."

"I am happy to help. We are family, are we not? Now come, we will find something perfect for you."

Hermione thought Fleur had done more than enough just by dispensing sage advice; she never expected her to take it a step further by actually helping her brave the overwhelming sea of intimate apparel. Not one to turn down any sort of learning opportunity, however, she lengthened her stride to keep up with her. "Can we keep this between us?"

"Not a problem." Fleur once again flashed a savvy grin. "Believe me, he will appreciate it much more if it comes as a surprise."

* * *

><p>Blissfully unaware of Hermione's orchestrations, Ron munched happily on a bacon sandwich as he thought about tomorrow's departure. He was at odds with how he was both dreading and anticipating the trip and he was curious about the location since Hermione wouldn't tell him. He had packed a small trunk, even though she had insisted that his clothes and other belongings would fit into her trusty beaded bag. To him, it was imperative that he take all the necessary steps to keep some sort of separation between them, to maintain a bit of distance in an undeniably intimate situation.<p>

He had mentally prepared for the holiday in his own fashion. His skill at wizard's chess made him a natural strategist, but in this case, the best strategy is to have no strategy at all. Simply reacting to whatever Hermione has up her sleeve would give him flexibility, while the lack of a plan would make him unpredictable. These were just small advantages, but advantages nonetheless.

Ron's musings were interrupted when Pigwidgeon flew through the open window, twittering loudly as he presented him with a rolled-up parchment, though not before crashing into Ron's head and tangling his claws in his owner's hair.

"Get off!" he shouted as he attempted to shoo away the tiny owl. He grudgingly gave Pig a corner of his sandwich, however, proving that his bark is worse than his bite, though the act of generosity accomplished the job of distracting his pet. "Where did you come from, anyway?" He had no idea that Pig had left in the first place, though the diminutive yet animated owl often made trips to the Owl Post Office to personally retrieve Ron's mail.

Ron unfurled the parchment and saw, to his surprise, that the note was from Neville, who was studying at a specialized school for herbology. He would be Professor Longbottom soon, though this was no revelation to his former Hogwarts dormitory mates or his other friends. Herbology was Neville's calling, even though the shy, timid boy had transformed into a self-assured young man, therefore no longer needing to shield himself from insecurity by burying himself in plants—wielding the Sword of Gryffindor and destroying a piece of You-Know-Who's soul did wonders for a person's confidence, as Ron can personally attest to.

A small pouch fell out when he had unrolled the parchment. With his curiosity growing, he began to read Neville's brief message:

_Ron,_

_I heard about your situation and thought I'd send help, in case you needed it. Wizards have to stick together, right? _

_It doesn't matter how you consume the leaves, the result remains the same: decreasing the effect of external stimuli._

_Don't use it all at once!_

_Neville_

Ron opened the pouch and stared at the oddly-shaped purple leaves nestled inside. Decrease the effect of external stimuli...wait a minute, how did Neville find out about his and Hermione's bet? Had he disclosed the information to Seamus and Dean during his drunken haze? He fervently hoped his friends weren't spreading it around. The thought of his forced celibacy as the talk of the wizarding world was unbearable, not to mention embarrassing.

He glanced at the leaves again. It somehow felt like cheating to even consider using them, yet he'd be a fool not to take the leaves with him on the trip. He can think of them as a security measure in the event his plan of not having a plan backfired. Before he could change his mind, he sealed the pouch and tossed it into the trunk.

He was certain that an outcome to this seemingly never-ending challenge will be reached during the holiday, though he wouldn't be able to explain why he felt so strongly about that conclusion. Perhaps because a resolution was so desperately needed that it simply had to happen over the span of the next five days. But who would emerge as the winner? And how would the aftermath affect their relationship?


	3. Narrow Escapes

**DISCLAIMER**: The characters, places, and things that are part of the Harry Potter universe all belong to J.K. Rowling, though should she choose to give up ownership of Ron, then I would gladly take him. This particular story, however, is mine.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: I would just like to thank those who are either following this fic or following me for their patience when it comes to updating this story. I'm my own worst critic and my rigorous standards prevent me from writing and publishing as quickly as I'd like. Thanks for your continued interest, and I hope it was worth the wait :)

* * *

><p>"What kind of place did you drag me to?" Ron hissed. He and Hermione had arrived at the resort moments ago, where they were promptly whisked away by their very enthusiastic tour guide as soon as they had checked in and dropped off their belongings. So far, what he'd seen during their journey on the resort's vast grounds was disturbing.<p>

"I didn't _drag_ you anywhere," Hermione whispered as she glared at him. "You came willingly." Though she argued with him, she too was disconcerted by what she saw. "I didn't expect the resort to be so..."

"Pink?" Nauseatingly pink. It was almost as bad as Umbridge's office.

"Yes, that."

"And what about the insane number of hearts all around this place?"

"Well, I wouldn't say it was an _insane_ amount, Ron. I admit it is quite a lot, but—"

"Is that love potion coming out of the fountain?"

"Surely it isn't." But the gushing liquid did look remarkably close to amortentia, right down to the characteristic mother-of-pearl sheen.

Perhaps Hermione should have read the fine print on the resort package before engaging in a bidding war with Harry over the coveted prize. Had she known that the resort would be so overtly saccharine and dripping with clichés designed to elicit romance, she never would have considered the possibility of taking Ron here. As it was, he looked ready to Disapparate. Only the firm grip she kept on his hand prevented him from doing so.

"What does it matter, anyway?" she asked Ron in a hushed tone as their guide continued to drone on. She knew she could never convince him otherwise, but the resort truly was beautiful if one managed to overlook the distractions. "We won't be spending much time outside. Just you and me, remember?" she reminded him, running a finger up and down his arm. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

She _would_ throw his own words back at him to prove a point. Knowing full well he can't object without sounding like an idiot, he decided to keep his mouth shut and listened with an absent ear to the guide who was leading their tour. Her annoyingly chirpy voice had a grating quality that made it hard to ignore, try as he might.

"The environment is lush, isn't it? Simply lush! Absolutely perfect for lovebirds such as yourselves!"

If Ron were the poetic sort, he supposed he could describe in great detail how the sun's rays bouncing off the water made the ocean look as if it was covered in diamonds, or how the brilliantly colored flowers dotting the flourishing landscape were so picturesque that it seemed like it came from the paintbrush of a master artist. But the lush—simply lush!—setting had no impact on him. Water was water and plants were plants; the only thing that mattered was that Hermione was there with him. She, on the other hand, looked positively interested by their foreign surroundings, so he suffered in silence and attempted to tune out the tour guide's gushing drivel.

"Isn't the atmosphere romantic? Our resort is the only place for people in love! We've been told many, many times by our guests that they are leaving even more in love than they were before they arrived!"

"Is that so?" he sarcastically remarked. Hermione shot him a look that clearly indicated that his comments were unnecessary.

"Oh, yes!" Not even Ron's mocking tone could dilute the tour guide's unbridled enthusiasm. "Romance is definitely in the air here at our wonderful resort!"

Hermione gauged Ron's expression and deduced that he had just about enough of their guide's constant prattling. Her own patience was wearing thin, as well. "Would you mind taking us to where we're staying?" she asked politely.

"I see someone's eager to get started!" the guide squawked, looking ready to burst with excitement. "Prepare to be swept away by the amorous ambiance!"

Ron wondered if he would have continued to find their guide annoying if he and Hermione were staying at the resort for its intended purpose. Within moments, their rented bungalow—or the battleground, as he preferred to think of it—was in view. A war would be waged within those walls, quite the opposite from what the tour guide had in mind for them.

"As you can see, each cottage is distanced enough from each other so there's no need to worry about the neighbors! We value privacy in our resort!"

Did all of the tour guide's sentences end with exclamation points? Her excitement was never-ending. "Hmm, yes. Thank you for showing us around," Hermione said as she accepted the key that was handed to her.

"It's my pleasure! If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to let us know!" The guide Disapparated with a loud pop as Hermione stuck the key in the door.

"Bloody hell, if that batty woman talked about romance or love for one more second, I swear I was going to Silence her," Ron declared.

"Honestly, Ron. She was only doing her job." She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Giving him a sly grin, Hermione added, "But I probably would have Silenced before you could even reach for your wand."

He laughed as he stepped through the doorway. Was it any wonder she was absolutely perfect for him? Gazing around, he sighed with relief when he saw the color pink was nowhere to be found. As Hermione wandered off, he noticed a bottle on one of the tables, a bow tied around its neck. He blanched as he read the attached note, which was decorated with the hearts he was beginning to loathe:

_DID YOU KNOW? Not only is our retreat synonymous with love, but we are proud to say that when it comes to young witches and wizards being conceived, we are the number one destination!_

He didn't care to know how the resort staff had arrived at that particular statistic. Shuddering slightly, he crumpled up the parchment and threw it in the rubbish bin.

Meanwhile, Hermione was distracted by the view from the glass doors that led to an outdoor deck facing the ocean. Sliding the doors open, she sighed as she marveled at the horizon. "Ron, come here!"

He joined her outside, taking the bottle of wine with him. "What is it?"

"Isn't it breathtaking?" Though the sun was beginning to set, the sky was awash with color. Purple bled into red, which gave way to orange that faced into pink. This particular spectacle of nature would never cease to amaze her.

Scratching his head, he replied, "I guess." What was it about sunsets that most people found so impressive? Or sunrises, for that matter. He looked down at her and was surprised by her dreamy expression. Since when did she wear that enraptured look on her face? Intrigued by her uncharacteristic demeanor, he said, "Don't tell me that crazy tour guide has gotten to you. Are you caught up in the _amorous atmosphere_, Hermione?"

She turned her back on the view to glower at him. "No one has gotten to me and I'm not caught up in anything," she proclaimed.

Ron wisely kept his smile in check. She looked ready to start pouting, but he couldn't resist needling her some more. "Are you sure?"

"Maybe I am, a little bit," she conceded defensively. "But so what? Am I only supposed to think about books all the time?"

"No, of course not." Without thinking, he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. "Hermione Granger, a hidden romantic," he mused in a hushed, almost reverent tone. "Just when I thought I knew all of you, you surprise me."

And just what was he going to do with this unexpected bit of knowledge? Would he use it ruthlessly against her in order to win their game? She had undeniably gifted him with an advantage. If their situation had been reversed, would she exploit the vulnerability? As much as her logical side said yes, she knew that she wouldn't-and couldn't-even if the opportunity presented itself.

Perhaps the view _was_ nice—Ron was willing to admit that. But it was her face that attracted him, not the scenery. She looked absolutely incredible in the waning light and though the wistful look she had on earlier hadn't disappeared completely, it was now layered with a mask of defiance. Soft, yet strong. It was a dangerous combination, one that could lure him in and capture him if he wasn't careful. Seemingly of its own volition, his thumb grazed her lips, which parted open at his touch. Soft, he thought again. In contrast, her eyes were daring him, practically taunting him to seize what he wanted, to take what was so achingly close.

Abruptly, Ron dropped his hand and took a step back. Merlin help him, the tour guide's relentless bleating about romance better not be taking its toll. Remembering that he had the wine bottle with him, he thrust it awkwardly at her. "Here. I found this on the table."

"How lovely." Grateful for the distraction, she summoned two wine glasses and popped the bottle open. She forced her hand to remain still as she poured. "Here's to us," she said as she handed him a glass, raising her own in a halfhearted attempt at a toast. She was suddenly very thirsty; the way he kept his eyes on hers made her throat dry.

He didn't even bother feigning interest in drinking. As if he needed one more thing that would cause him to lower his defenses. Setting his glass down on the railing, he suggested, "This wine will go better with some food. I should get some." He left before she could question his hasty retreat.

Hermione turned her attention back to the ocean view, but it no longer captivated her. She was the mastermind of this plan; it was her idea to go to this resort, so why was it backfiring on her? If Ron had stayed there for another minute—no, another second—she would have devoured him. That was the only way to describe the voracious feeling that slammed into her as they had stared at each other, neither one unable to break the trance that had netted them both. He had looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, wonderment etched clearly on his face. Then he had touched her—he barely touched her, if anything—and she felt like she was on fire.

He was right, she was getting too caught up in this place...and most of all, too caught up in him. Had she overestimated her ability to remain immune to her surroundings? After her earlier display of sensitivity, she had to take extra precaution. Hermione vowed not to falter again. Her plan, she reminded herself once more. Her idea. She should be able to dictate the ebbs and flows of the battle rather than be susceptible to whatever he said or did. Control...wasn't that the whole point?

Still feeling off balance, she dumped the contents of Ron's wineglass into hers as she continued to look blankly at the lapping waves. She needed to relax, to gather herself and slip her armor back into place. Perhaps a nice, hot bath was in order, she mused. That would surely relieve the tension in her body. Taking the bottle with her, she went inside, feeling slightly more confident in her ability to recover from a slight setback. By the time Ron returned, she'd be ready for him.

* * *

><p>Ron took his time getting the food and hoped Hermione didn't mind waiting as he wandered aimlessly around the resort in a futile effort to clear his head. How close had he come to tottering over the brink of defeat? And all she had done was stand there. No weapons, no plots, no pretense. No effort. It was disheartening.<p>

His mind involuntarily flashed back to that intimate moment. He didn't dare entertain the idea of kissing her, of tasting what he had been deprived of for so long. Sure, it seemed easy; after all, what's one kiss to temporarily sate the hunger? Just one kiss and he'd walk away. But, much like anything that involved Hermione and his feelings for her, it was anything but simple. He was quite mindful of his limitations and knew, of course, that he would never be satisfied with just a kiss. He could picture, with alarming clarity, the embrace that would quickly escalate into the overwhelming physical need that would consume them both.

No, it wouldn't stop with only one kiss. It would be all or nothing. Until their battle reached a conclusion, he would have to get by with wishful thinking, though it would be best if he didn't fantasize at all. He felt like he was fighting against two forces: Hermione and himself. He wouldn't last a full day if he continued on like this.

He arrived at the resort's restaurant and randomly chose items on the menu. For once he didn't care about food; it was hard to think of much else when Hermione had effectively gotten under his skin. Not only had she snuck past his guard so quickly, but she had also done it without any apparent contrivance. Perhaps he shouldn't have come here without a strategy. Surely it wasn't too late to come up with a plan so he wouldn't be caught floundering like a fish out of water.

He did have a couple of tools in his arsenal, though they were mainly for self-preservation than anything else: the leaves from Neville, which he had hidden in the wardrobe before making his cowardly exit, and a vial of sleeping draught that he would undoubtedly rely on to get any rest during the next few nights. Hermione enjoyed cuddling and often used his shoulder as a pillow when they slept. Needless to say, his body wouldn't be able to endure the way she molded herself to him like a puzzle piece sliding into place, or the soft stroking of her fingers on his chest.

Once the order was ready, he meandered back to the cottage instead of Apparating. It was imperative that he drop the gloomy outlook he had adopted after brushing up against temptation. It simply wouldn't do to have such a negative attitude, not if he wanted to win.

If he was the underdog in this particular competition, then so be it. It was a role he'd filled all his life and he turned out all right, didn't he? And this was only the first day of their holiday; he still had time to turn the outcome in his favor.

Spirits buoyed and feeling something akin to confidence, Ron squared his slumping shoulders as he unlocked the door and entered the cottage. Nothing could have prepared him for the horrifying sight that greeted him.

Candles were aglow as far as his eyes could see. Tapers of varying lengths burned everywhere, making the air inside overly warm and stuffy. He yanked at the collar of his shirt as sweat started to bead on his skin, though it was hard to say if the perspiration was due to the heat or the sudden spike of apprehension that sliced through him. He slowly ambled over to the kitchen, his mouth still slack from shock, and noticed that there was..._something_ littered all over the floor. He put the food on the table and bent down to investigate the clutter, squinting against the candlelight. They looked like...flower petals? But where did they come from? And what were they doing on the floor, out of all places?

He straightened and yelped when he felt someone grabbing him from behind. At least, it had initially felt like a grab. "Hermione?" he croaked anxiously when he realized that he was being hugged, and rather tightly at that.

She laughed as he turned around. "Who else would it be?"

His senses, which had been dulled by his obvious astonishment over what had been done to their cottage, regained their acuity, much to his regret. Even in the candlelight, he couldn't overlook that she wore nothing but a decidedly unsexy dressing gown. At least, it should have been unsexy. It should have been un-provocative. The damn thing was sizable and shapeless; it practically swallowed her. Yet all he could think about was how he could easily untie the sash that held the gown closed. He'd certainly had enough practice. Stuffing his suddenly restless hands in his pockets, Ron also noted that her curly hair was damp and that her flushed skin was scented with whatever fragrant concoction she had dumped in her bathwater. He bit his tongue to prevent it from hanging out.

Her arms still around him, Hermione nuzzled her face into his chest. "I missed you."

"I wasn't even away for an hour." He could feel her breath through his shirt and it was driving him crazy. "Hermione, what the hell happened here? Flowers, candles—" He broke off as he arrived at a likely conclusion. "Did that daft tour guide force her way inside and do this?"

She laughed again and looked up at him, her eyes shining. The need to kiss her—and to do much, much more than that—was staggering.

"Of course not, silly." She relaxed her hold on him to play with the buttons on his shirt. "It was my idea."

"Your—your idea?" he repeated, aghast.

"Mm-hmm. Do you like it?"

"Do I like...it?" She _was _talking about her decorating skills, wasn't she, and not the way she was adeptly teasing him? His suddenly malfunctioning brain struggled to make sense of anything.

"Yes." She looked up at him earnestly, seeking approval. "You were gone so long…"

"If you were bored, why didn't you just read a book, or—"

"Oh, I wasn't bored. I had plenty to do while you were out, as you can clearly see. I wanted to surprise you and to show you how I felt. I think it's very romantic, but of course that's lost on you."

Ron narrowed his eyes as he studied her. He could have sworn that her voice sharpened slightly, yet she continued to hold him. Warily, he said, "I'm not sure how all of this can be lost on anyone." Romantic gestures made him twitchy, that's all, whether he was giving them or on the receiving end. And why would she suddenly be so open with these gestures when less than an hour ago, she'd been so defensive about being labeled as a romantic?

"Why don't you like it?" she asked as tears filled her eyes. "Don't you love me?"

"Bloody hell, Hermione, of course I do—"

She brightened immediately, positively beaming at him. "I love you, too. At any rate, my dear Ronald…"

Ronald? And since when has he been her dear anything? "Are you feeling all right?" he asked, starting to grow concerned. Something was...off. The notion bothered him like an itch between the shoulder blades that was just out of reach.

"I feel wonderful. You would know that for yourself if you'd just touch me. Don't you want to?"

He did touch her, but only to grip her hands in his so her fingers would stop wreaking havoc on his rapidly fraying nerves. The candles, the rose petals...he should have paid attention to the glaring signs. But if he wasn't aware of it before, he sure as hell knew it now: Hermione was launching a full-scale attack. To say that he was in trouble would be an understatement.

Though her hands could no longer do as they pleased, Hermione was undeterred. "Would you like to know what I did while you were away?"

"You mean other than littering and creating fire hazards?"

She ignored his barb. "I took a nice hot bath. Would you like to know what I thought about while I was doing that?"

Since he was trying not to focus on the image of her soaking in the tub with only water droplets and soap bubbles clinging to her skin, he hastily answered, "Sure, why not?"

"I thought about you and the last time you touched me. I mean _really_ touched me. And the more I thought about it, my heart started pounding, like it was going to jump out of my chest. See?" She took his hand and placed it over her heart, as if to prove her reaction to him.

Ron was suddenly very grateful that the thick dressing down provided enough of a barrier between his hand and her body. He couldn't feel a thing...or so he told himself.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it, about you," she continued breathlessly. "About the way you touch me as if you'd never done it before, so you go slowly, taking your time, driving me insane. But there are times when you're...greedy. Impatient. Eager. Like you only have hours left to live, so you take as much as you can, but you're never selfish about it since you always meet my needs first. I don't know which excites me more."

Without a doubt, she had succeeded in clearing away all conscious thought. It was a testament to her effect on him—her words, her face, the way she felt against him—that Ron didn't realize she had maneuvered him towards the couch until he was sitting down, his back against the cushions. With a smile teasing her lips, she sat on his lap, straddling him. In the back of his mind, he dimly heard the sound of a cage door slamming shut, the cage she made for him, and one that he'd walked into willingly.

He was trapped. Trapped...but not yet defeated. As she shifted so she could get closer to him, the hem of her dressing gown went up a dangerous, tantalizing inch. He frantically willed himself to think about anything else, anything other than the fact that she surely wasn't wearing anything under that gown. He hurriedly flipped through his mental catalogue of unpleasant objects. Spiders...trolls…garden gnomes...vegetables...leaves! Bless you, Neville, Ron silently rejoiced as he remembered his secret weapon. But the relief was short-lived; he'd left his wand on the kitchen table and was unable to summon his last chance at salvation.

"Tell me something, Ron," Hermione whispered against his ear. "Would you still want me if I was wearing a rubbish bag?"

The question was so absurd it momentarily distracted him. "What?"

"You know, a rubbish bag."

"Why the hell would you even wear one?"

In an immediate change of mood, Hermione glared at him, softness replaced by steel. "Just answer the question!" she ordered in a shrill tone.

There it was again, that sharp pitch in her voice. That nagging itch returned, the feeling that something wasn't quite right. "Hermione, I can't breathe without wanting you," he replied truthfully. "Is that what you want to hear?" Would she drag it all out of him, leave him with nothing? Wasn't his impending demise, and her victory, enough?

She all but melted into him, her temper gone. "Show me. Right now." She brushed her mouth over his and he tasted the wine on her lips. Was she drunk? he wondered. But he dismissed the thought as quickly as it had popped into in his mind. He'd witnessed the spectacular sight of a drunk Hermione only once. She had been awkward, amusing...adorable. Then, when they fell into bed at her insistence, she had been playful and uninhibited. Insatiable. If there was ever a memory he'd put in the Pensieve, it would be that one.

No, she couldn't be drunk. But she also wasn't behaving normally. Though her methods were effective—sheer will alone was preventing him from tearing off her damn unsexy dressing gown—they also didn't make sense. This challenge of theirs was all about control and capitulation. Though she commanded him to do what she wanted, she didn't seem in charge at all. More than once tonight, she had seemed defensive, as if she'd been insulted, and demanding, as if she needed reassurance.

Ron needed to think, but it was nearly impossible to do so when her body was pressed against his, her lips against his throat. Before she could fully kiss him, he blurted out, "I need to go to the bathroom." It was the only thing he could come up with.

"Now?"

"Yes, now." He quickly dislodged himself from the tangle of her limbs, but didn't fail to catch her hurt expression. What the hell was going on here? He was practically a puddle at her feet, yet she looked as if he'd just rejected her.

He stalked off towards their bedroom, blowing out candles along the way. He doubted she'd miss a few unlit tapers. Rather than going inside the adjoining bathroom, he flung open the door to the wardrobe and found the pouch. Opening the little bag, he stuffed a purple leaf in his mouth, unsure if that was even the proper way to utilize it. It was dry and rough, and he nearly choked. Looking around for something to wash it down with, he spotted the open wine bottle. Yeah, Hermione definitely wasn't drunk, Ron decided as he felt the liquid sloshing around inside. He estimated that it wasn't even half empty. He quickly poured some wine into an empty glass and was just about to drink when he abruptly stopped, the liquid almost touching his lips.

Mingled with the smell of crushed, fermented grapes were the unmistakable scents of his favorite things, above most was Hermione's perfume. Amortentia, he concluded as he forcibly swallowed the last remnants of the leaf in his mouth. There was love potion in the wine. Just like that, her odd behavior had an explanation. His lust died a swift death; whether that was due to Neville's leaves or the realization that Hermione's actions had been influenced by artificial means, he couldn't say.

He had to put a stop to this whole mess. Ron rummaged through the wardrobe again and pulled out the vial of sleeping draught. He didn't have Slughorn's antidote, but he could knock her out with this until the love potion's effects wore off. He was doing it for Hermione's own good, for there was nothing amusing about being coerced into intense feelings of infatuation by artificial means. And yes, damn it, he too would benefit from this plan. He was getting tired of fighting her off. She was still out there, waiting for him. Waiting for him to want her, as if he didn't already.

But how would he get her to drink it? He sure as hell wasn't going to use the wine. Grabbing the bottle, he poured its contents down the bathroom sink. Now he knew how the resort gained the claim to fame they had so proudly advertised.

Tucking the vial in his pocket, he went back out to the living room, where Hermione literally pounced on him as soon as he emerged.

"I missed you," she murmured, raining soft kisses all over his face as he struggled to keep the two of them upright and balanced. "Don't ever leave me again."

Somehow he managed to make his way to the kitchen, but the strain of resisting her and holding her up took its toll and he collapsed onto a nearby chair. "Make love to me, Ron," she said urgently. "Right here."

"Hermione, the last time we did that, the chair broke and I had these bruises I couldn't quite explain…" Yet another memory for the Pensieve. He wondered if she could tell that he was stalling. "Let's have a drink first."

"I'm not thirsty." She nimbly popped open a button, then two, on his shirt.

"If you really loved me, then you'll have a drink." He hated manipulating her that way, but he was running out of options.

She met his eyes. "I _do_ love you," she said passionately, as if she was willing him to believe it.

"Then that settles it." Once again he untangled himself from her.

"There's wine in the—"

"No wine," Ron cut in sharply. Water will do, would have to do. He filled his own glass and, since she was watching his every move, angled his body in such a way so that she couldn't see him adding the sleeping draught. He was unsure of the recommended dosage, but figuring it was better to be safe than sorry, he put in several drops. Was sleeping draught tasteless? Well, it didn't matter, as long as she drank every bit of that water. He took a small sip and saw that she mimicked it, as if copying him was a true indication of her love for him. He guzzled his water to make sure that she did the same. Ron hoped the draught would kick in quickly.

Hermione set her glass on the table. "Now, where were we?" she asked suggestively.

"We were about to go in the bedroom." So you can sleep, Ron silently added.

"I don't think so." She stood up, took his hand and led him back to the chair, where she promptly settled back on his lap. He noted that her movements were somewhat sluggish, as if her arms and legs were growing heavier with fatigue.

"Hermione, you need to lie down."

"Hmm. Okay," she agreed drowsily. "But I get to be on top next time."

Ron was saved from coming up with a retort when he saw that she had placed her head on his shoulder and was sleeping soundly. Sighing with relief, he lifted her and went to the bedroom. He wasn't the type to carry nor was she the type to be carried, but he was surprised to discover that he didn't mind cradling her like this. Placing her carefully on the large bed, he tucked the blankets over her as she snuggled deeper into the pillows. Since the situation seemed to call for it, Ron kissed her forehead and, after watching her for a moment, stepped back out to extinguish all of the candles.

* * *

><p>Hermione woke abruptly, like a sprinter taking off at the sound of the starting gun. She bolted upright in bed and the sudden jolt made her dizzy, prompting her to lean on her pillow as she tried to quell the waves of nausea and embarrassment. It was too bad the images swimming around in her head weren't from a nightmare.<p>

A multitude of candles and strewn flower petals. Pining over her lover and best friend, even though his heart was already in her hands. The utter desperation for reciprocated love. Asking him about the rubbish bag. She shuddered as she tried to repress the memories.

She turned to her side and frowned when she sensed that the spot next to her was empty. Running her hand on the bedspread, she noted the sheets were cool to the touch. Where was Ron?

The room was dark, but she was aware of his presence nearby. Then, as if she'd wished it, she heard him whisper, "Lumos," and she saw him bathed in the glow of his wand. He joined her on the bed, sitting down so that he was facing her. She looked fragile in the baggy dressing gown, but the bulky garment didn't diminish her appeal.

"Remind me to burn this bloody thing," he muttered, brushing his fingers over the serviceable cotton of her sleeve.

"What?" Hermione asked, brows drawing together in confusion.

"Nothing," Ron answered dismissively. "How are you feeling?" He placed the illuminated wand on the nightstand so they could see each other clearly.

"Sleepy."

"Sorry about that. I had to give you a sleeping draught."

She was grateful for it. "And I feel foolish." She had been so...clingy. So pathetically dependent on his affections. So hungry for constant validation of her appeal. She squirmed uncomfortably as she remembered.

"Yeah, I get the foolish part." Studying her intently, he could see her pale skin and the shadows under her eyes. Though she had been in a deep slumber, she looked exhausted.

Of course he understood, having suffered the effects of it in their sixth year. Still, she was grateful that he didn't rub it in her face. "Love potion."

"Amortentia," he specified. "Heavy stuff."

As heavy as it gets. Since she hadn't eaten anything after they'd arrived at the resort, it was easy to conclude that the wine had been spiked. She hadn't smelled the potion; she had consumed her first glass of wine so quickly since Ron had thoroughly unnerved her, then she had her second glass while soaking in the tub, the fragrant soap permeating the air already heavy with steam made it impossible for any other aroma to be noticed.

"I'm so embarrassed," she confessed. "I threw myself at you." Literally and figuratively.

"Yeah, you did," he agreed. "But before I knew it was the love potion, I thought you were seducing me...and doing a damn good job." Now that the coast was clear, he didn't mind admitting it.

"Really?" she said, voice filled with doubt, eyes wide with disbelief. "Me?"

Ron couldn't help but grin. She looked so surprised to hear that she had very nearly caused his downfall. "Unless there was some other witch in here who had me close to drooling."

Hermione smiled back. Close to drooling, huh? She'd have to do better next time...if she could only figure out how exactly she'd been seductive in the first place. "Still, I feel like I should apologize."

"There's no need."

As much as she wanted to bury her mortification in the recesses of her mind, she was compelled to explain her experience to him. "It was so weird, Ron. Everything was heightened: love, obsession, lust...whatever it was. Even though I was under the influence, I knew deep down that you already loved me. In a way, that made it worse, because every time you didn't give in, it felt like a knife slicing me open. When we weren't in the same room together, I would miss you terribly, as if we hadn't seen each other in years rather than just minutes. It was like the potion didn't know how to react; you'd given it to me, making yourself the object of affection, yet you didn't want or need those feelings." Now that she was discussing it intellectually, it was rather interesting.

Ron could almost see the gears spinning in her brain. "Why don't you write a paper about it?" he suggested, his voice flavored with sarcasm and amusement.

"Maybe...this could be unprecedented. The effects of amortentia on an individual already in love with the person who presents the potion. Hmm…"

She was still pale and the shadows under her eyes remained, but there was no doubt that Hermione was back to normal. "You should get some more sleep," he said as he started to rise.

Hermione grabbed his hand to prevent him from leaving. "Hang on a second. You said that—that I had seduced you." She still had a hard time believing it.

He nodded. "Trust me, I was nearly gone."

"Then you figured out it was love potion. I would have done anything you wanted. The control was yours, yet you didn't do anything. The game could have been over. You would have won."

Ron could sense her relief and disappointment in equal parts. Her question, though unasked, hung in the air between them. _Why?_

He stated solemnly, "It wouldn't have been winning."

"Ron." Filled with tenderness, she framed his face in her hands. His honesty would be her undoing, she was nearly sure of it. Though she was a modern woman who didn't require chivalry, she appreciated it all the same. She recalled the direction of her thoughts when she was looking out at the ocean earlier and silently admonished herself. She should have known all along that he would be honorable. He was, in his own way, rather gallant. She imagined that if she ever told him, he'd fiercely deny it, face flushed with embarrassment. It only made her love him more.

The way she was looking at him, with eyes full of warmth, spurred him into taking action. Unable to stop himself—not wanting to stop himself—he very gently met her lips with his own, taking extreme care not to touch her anywhere else. It lasted only seconds and felt more like a promise of a kiss than the real thing. It was almost a friendly gesture. But when they pulled apart, his arms were rigid with restraint. One of her hands remained on his face, and the other held a fistful of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip.

"What was that for?" Hermione whispered shakily. Her heart felt like it had been squeezed as tightly as she was holding onto Ron's shirt.

"I think we both needed it," he replied without bothering to disguise the tremor in his voice. Despite the "all or nothing" resolution he'd made earlier, Ron didn't regret what just happened. He hadn't kissed her out of longing—well, it was partly because of that, but only a very small part. He'd done it for reassurance, and because there had been so much emotion in her eyes that he simply had to respond in kind. "Get some rest, Hermione. It's been a long night."

"I'll rest if you stay with me. Here, in bed, and not on the floor or wherever you were earlier," she said firmly. "We need this, too." She needed to hold him and be held by him, to feel secure after that night's unsettling events. It's been so long, too long, since they shared a bed.

Out of self-preservation, he had slept—or tried to, anyway—in the small couch in their bedroom. The caution was overkill, since Hermione had been out cold. But caution had no place here, at this very moment. He sought comfort, to give and receive it.

"Nox," Ron said, and his wand dimmed. He climbed under the blankets with Hermione. She put her head on his shoulder and his arm draped loosely around her waist. Her sigh of satisfaction echoed his. Within minutes, they were asleep, their game forgotten for just a few hours.


End file.
